Hundres of Years
by Threnna
Summary: Really now. He knew their politicians knew of their behaviour behind the scenes. He also knew they did not exactly appreciate it. All the nations knew they did not.


Really now. He knew their politicians knew of their behaviour behind the scenes. He also knew they did not exactly appreciate it. All the nations knew they did not. However, they also all knew they could never expect a human to understand.

He breathed heavily, one breath through the nose, before opening his mouth again. Maybe, when he was still young, had he also had the same view on this as them? Hissing as a sensitive spot was graced, glaring up. Fingers reaching again for the spot, the male above him hummed. "What's this now?"

Then again, maybe not. The skin can betray; they were nothing like the humans.

England grabbed a fist full of the other's hair, roughly yanking him down for a deep-throated kiss. He was not in the mood for talking. "Spain, I see," France breathed against England's lips, before he was silenced again.

It was despicable, perhaps. He could understand the humans' way of thinking. Some times he thought he understood too well –they _all_ did. It was their job. To understand, help, guide and shut up when told so. They had all the power in the world, yet they had none.

"Does Waterloo still hurt?" England growled silently, though more from a half groan of pleasure, than actual annoyance. France chuckled. "I get the hint." And for once he bowed to England's light threat; letting his strangely soft fingertips wander, leaving the red, round spot alone.

For all they knew, the two of them could be at war, locked in a heated embrace with only the thought of killing the other in mind. In that, they had no say.

Hot breath traced along his neck. It was nothing but an effect for pleasure, it was not like they actually needed to breathe. Their existence was not like any of the other living creatures of this small world. Regardless, England shifted in the burgundy sheets, digging his fingertips into France's back. Deeply. Any human would have cried out in pain; France knew the sign to be of approval to his gesture.

They lived for hundreds, upon hundreds years. Even after they were abolished, they would continue to exist, in a way of meaning. For as long as there was even the smallest trace of remembrance of them left in the world, they would continue to exist. They watched time come and go, history repeat itself, and their inhabitants' futile tries of avoiding it. In comparison to the humans, they were few. In comparison to anything, the nations were few. Their numbers were that of a small school. Yet in these few numbers were the only ones they could rely on to understand.

"It was a rough night, obviously."

France sounded humoured, proceeding to nibble on England's left earlobe, where the markings of teeth was still visible. England leaned his head back against the pillows coloured black in lack of light; they were reaching the end, though there was much left of the night to go still.

"He is still angry about the Armada," England mumbled, words just barely strained from centuries of time getting accustomed to this.

They were the only ones who knew how each other felt, what it felt like. The only ones who could understand. Therefore this was not strange to them. They made friends and enemies, like their humans, nevertheless nights were spent crosswise of that line. And none of them ever stopped to question it; it was simply the way it was.

France chuckled again, silently, deeply in the back of his throat. "This has been a most enjoyable evening," he whispered into England's ear.

That the humans could never understand. They were not psychically equipped to grasp the meaning of eternity, and the burdens it carried with it.

England locked is arms around the other man's neck for support. "Next time you will come to me," he murmured, "plane tickets are not so reasonably priced any more." France had ceased his breathing again, focusing only on ending what they had started. Three nights from now, that would be someone else. Maybe already tomorrow if he felt like it.

Acceptance. Regardless of enmity or friendship, they were the only ones who could grant it to each other.

No heart beat in his chest as England pressed up against the other. France's cell phone screen blinked twice on the night stand. A politician, perhaps, or someone completely different. England let his teeth sink into France's shoulder, harder and harder until thick liquid pooled by his lip. Like this he could taste the bare life of the French people, quivering, vibrating, like electricity, keeping secrets and history and the world. "Do not forget to lock the door when you leave," and France finished them off.

Perhaps that was why none of them questioned or declined this act across relationships and bonds. It was their way of achieving the acceptance only they shared. Maybe that, or maybe they only did it to pass the centuries, while the humans played an untiring game of tag across their bodies and borders without childproof locks and safety nets.


End file.
